GIFT  OF 


^_'_\_ 


ny  way, 
Weigh  me  the 

weight  of  the  fire, 
Or  measure  me  the 
blast  of  the  wind, 
Or  call 'me  again 
the  day  that  is  past 


First  Edition  published  November  28, 1916 
Second  Edition  published  December 18, 1916 


The  Long  Ago 


^ 

Y  ^Jbf* 
A)*'   :  - 


Published  by  the  Author 
Copyright  1916  by  J  W  Wright 
246  East  Colorado  Street 
Pasadena  California 


The  Garden 

The  River 

Christmas 

Butter,  Eggs,  Ducks,  Geese 

The  Sugar  Barrels 

Jimmy,  the  Lamplighter 

Flies 

The  Autumn  Leaves 

Getting  in  the  Wood          I  &/  L 

The  Rain 

Grandmother 

When  Day  is  Done 


3**  r"  '•->  n 
u  t)  O  O 


HE  day  is  done,  and  yet  we  linger  here 
at  the  window  of  the  private  office, 
alone,  in  the  early  evening. 
Street  sounds  come  surging  up  to  us — 
the  hoarse  Voice  of  the  City — a 
confused  blurr  of  noise — clanging 
trolley-cars,  rumbling  wagons,  and 
familiar  cries — all  the  varied 
commotion  of  the  home-going  hour 
when  the  city's  buildings  are  pouring 
forth  their  human  tide  of  laborers 
into  the  clogged  arteries. 

We  lean  against  the  window-frame, 
looking  across  and  beyond  the  myriad 
roofs,  and  listening.    The  world- 
weariness  has  touched  our  temples  with 
gray,  and  the  heaviness  of  the  day's 
concerns  and  tumult  presses  in,  presses 
in    ....    presses  in    .... 

Yet  as  we  look  into  the  gentle 
twilight,  the  throbbing  street  below 
slowly  changes  to  a  winding  country 
road     ....     the  tall  buildings 
fade  in  the  sunset  glow  until  they 


become  only  huge  elm-trees 
overtopping  a  dusty  lane     .... 
the  trolley-bells  are  softened  so  that 
they  are  but  the  distant  tinkle  of  the 
homeward  herd  on  the  hills    .... 
and  you  and  I  in  matchless  freedom 
are  once  more  trudging  the  Old  Dear 
Road  side  by  side,  answering  the  call 
of  the  wondrous  Voice  of  Boyhood 
sounding  through  the  years. 


The 
Garden 


The 
Garden 

It  was  the  spirit  of  the  garden  that 
crept  into  my  boy-heart  and  left  its 
fragrance,  to  endure  through  the  years. 
What  the  garden  stood  for — what  it  ex 
pressed — left  a  mysterious  but  certain 
impress.  Grandmother's  touch  hallowed 
it  and  made  it  a  thing  apart,  and  the  rare 
soul  of  her  seemed  to  be  reflected  in  the 
Lilies  of  the  Valley  that  bloomed  sweetly 
year  by  year  in  the  shady  plot  under  her 
favorite  window  in  the  sitting-room.  Be 
cause  the  garden  was  her  special  province, 
it  expressed  her  own  sturdy,  kindly 
nature.  Little  wonder,  then,  that  we 
cherished  it;  that  I  loved  to  roam  idly 
there  feeling  the  enfoldment  of  that  same 
protection  and  loving-kindness  which 
drew  me  to  the  shelter  of  her  gingham- 
aproned  lap  when  the  griefs  of  Boyhood 
pressed  too  hard  upon  me;  and  that  we 
walked  in  it  so  contentedly  in  the  cool  of 
the  evening,  after  the  Four  O'clocks  had 
folded  their  purple  petals  for  the  night. 

Grandmother's  garden,  like  all  real 
gardens,  wasn't  just  flowers  and  fra 
grance. 


There  was  a  brick  walk  leading  from 
the  front  gate  to  the  sitting-room  en 
trance — red  brick,  all  moss-grown,  and 
with  the  tiny  weeds  and  grasses  pushing 
up  between  the  bricks.  In  the  garden 
proper  the  paths  were  of  earth,  bordered 
and  well-defined  by  inch-wide  boards 
that  provided  jolly  tight-rope  practice 
until  grandmother  came  anxiously  out 
with  her  oft-repeated:  "Willie,  don't 
walk  on  those  boards;  you'll  break  them 
down."  And  just  after  the  warm  spring 
showers  these  earth-walks  always  held 
tiny  mud-puddles  where  the  rain-bleached 
worms  congregated  until  the  robins  came 
that  way. 

There's  something  distinctive  and  in 
dividual  about  the  paths  in  a  garden — 
they  either  "belong,"  or  they  do  not. 
Imagine  cement  walks  in  grandmother's 
garden!  Its  walks  are  as  much  to  a 
garden  as  its  flowers  or  its  birds  or  its 
beetles,  and  express  that  dear,  indescrib 
able  intimacy  that  makes  the  Phlox  a 


"And  shining 

clear  and  true 

...    I  see  her 

who  was  the 

Spirit  of  the  Garden." 


friend  and  the  Johnny- Jump-Up  a  play 
fellow. 

The  best  place  for  angle-worms  was 
underneath  the  white  Syringa  bush — the 
tallest  bloomer  in  the  garden  except  the 
great  Red  Rose  that  climbed  over  the  en 
tire  wall  of  the  house,  tacked  to  it  by 
strips  of  red  flannel,  and  whose  blossoms 
were  annually  counted  and  reported  to 
the  weekly  newspaper. 

Another  good  place  was  under  the 
Snowball  bush,  where  the  ground  was 
covered  with  white  petals  dropped  from 
the  countless  blossom-balls  that  made 
passers-by  stop  in  admiration. 

Still  another  good  digging-ground  was 
in  the  Lilac  corner  where  the  purple  and 
white  bushes  exhaled  their  incomparable 
perfume.  Grandmother  forbade  digging 
in  the  flower-beds — it  was  all  right  to  go 
into  the  vegetable  garden,  but  the  tender 
flower-roots  must  not  be  exposed  to  the 


sun  by  ruthless  boy  hands  intent  only  on 
the  quest  of  bait. 

Into  the  lapel  of  my  dress  coat  She 
fastened  a  delicate  orchid  last  night.  It 
must  have  cost  a  pretty  penny,  at  this 
season — enough,  no  doubt,  to  buy  the 
seeds  that  would  reproduce  a  half-dozen 
of  my  grandmother's  gardens.  And  as 
we  moved  away  in  the  limousine  She 
asked  me  why  I  was  so  silent.  She  could 
not  know  that  when  she  slipped  its  rare 
stem  into  place  upon  my  coat,  the  long 
years  dropped  away — and  I  stood  again 
where  the  Yellow  Rose,  all  thorn-cov 
ered,  lifted  its  sunny  top  above  the  picket 
fence — plucked  its  choicest  blossom,  put 
it  almost  apologetically  and  ashamed  into 
the  buttonhole  of  my  jacket — stuffed  my 
hands  into  my  pockets  and  went  whistling 
down  the  street,  with  the  yellow  rose-tint 
and  the  sunlight  and  the  curls  on  my 
child  head  all  shining  in  harmony.  The 
first  boutonniere  of  my  life — from  the 
bush  that  became  my  confidant  through 


all  those  wondrous  years  before  they 
packed  my  trunk  and  sent  me  off  to 
college ! 

To  be  sure,  I  loved  the  bright-faced 
Pansies  which  smiled  cheerily  up  at  me 
from  their  round  bed — and  the  dear  old 
Pinks,  of  a  strange  fragrance  all  their 
own — and  the  Sweet  William,  and  even 
the  grewsome  Bleeding  Heart  that 
drooped  so  sad  and  forlorn  in  its  alloted 
corner.  Yet  it  is  significant  that  last 
night's  orchid  took  me  straight  back  over 
memory's  pathway  to  that  simple  yellow 
rose-bush  by  the  fence ! 

Tonight,  with  the  forgotten  orchid  in 
my  lapel,  and  all  the  weight  of  the  great 
struggle  lying  heavy  against  my  heart,  I 
stand  where  the  night-fog  veils  the 
scraggly  eucalyptus,  and  the  dense  silence 
blots  out  all  the  noises  that  have  inter 
vened  between  the  Then  and  the  Now — 
and  I  can  see  again  the  gorgeous  Peonies, 
pink  and  white,  where  they  toss  theii 
shaggy  heads,  and  gather  as  of  old  the 


flaming  Cock's  Comb  by  the  little  path. 
I  hear  the  honey-bees  droning  in  the 
Crab  Apple  tree  by  the  back  gate,  and 
watch  the  robins  crowding  the  branches 
of  the  Mountain  Ash,  where  the  bright 
red  berries  cluster.  I  see  the  terrible 
bumble-bee  bear  down  the  Poppy  on  its 
slender  stem  and  go  buzzing  threaten 
ingly  away,  all  pollen-covered. 

And  shining  clear  and  true  through  the 
mist  I  see  her  who  was  the  Spirit  of  the 
Garden.  There  she  stands,  on  the  broad 
step  beside  the  bed  where  the  Lilies  of 
the  Valley  grew,  leaning  firmly  upon  her 
one  crutch,  looking  out  across  her  garden 
to  each  loved  group  of  her  flower-friends 
— smiling  out  upon  them  as  she  did  each 
day  through  fifty  years — turning  at  last 
into  the  house  and  taking  with  her,  in 
her  heart,  the  glory  of  the  Hollyhocks 
against  the  brick  wall,  the  perfume  of  the 
Narcissus  in  the  border,  the  wing-song 
of  the  humming-bird  among  the  Honey 
suckle,  and  the  warmth  of  the  glad  June 
sunshine. 


The 
River 


The      River 


The  river  wasn't  a  big  river  as  I  look  back  at  it 
now,  yet  it  was  wide  and  wandering  and  deep,  and 
flowed  quietly  along  through  a  wonderful  Middle 
West  valley,  dividing  the  Little  Old  Town  geograph 
ically  and  socially.  Its  shores  furnished  such  a  boy 
playground  as  never  was  known  anywhere  else  in 
all  the  world — for  it  was  a  gentle  river,  a  kindly 
playfellow,  an  understanding  friend;  and  it  seemed 
to  fairly  thrill  in  responsive  glee  when  I  plunged, 
naked  and  untamed,  beneath  the  eddying  waters  of 
the  swimming-hole  under  the  overhanging  wild-plum 
tree. 

Its  banks,  curving  in  a  semi-circle  around  the  vil 
lage,  marked  the  borders  of  the  whole  wide  world. 
There  were  other  rivers,  other  villages,  other  lands 
somewhere — all  with  strange,  queer  names — existing 
only  in  the  geographies  to  worry  little  children.  The 
real  world,  and  all  the  really,  truly  folks  and  things, 
were  along  the  far-stretching  banks  of  this  our  river. 
Down  by  the  flats,  where  the  tiny  creek  widened  to 
a  minature  swamp  and  emptied  its  placid  waters  into 
the  main  stream,  the  red-wing  blackbirds  sounded 
their  strange  cry  among  the  cat-tails  and  the  bull- 
rushes  ;  the  frogs  croaked  in  ceaseless  and  reverberant 
chorus ;  the  catfish  were  ever  hungry  after  dark,  and 
the  night  was  broken  by  the  glare  of  torches  along 


the  little  bridge  or  in  a  group  of  boats  where  fisher- 
lads  kept  close  watch  upon  their  corks.  Far  below 
The  Dam,  where  the  changeful  current  had  left  a 
wide  sand-bar  and  a  great  tree-trunk  stretched  its 
fallen  length  across  from  the  shore  to  the  water's 
edge,  the  mud-turtles  basked  in  the  sunshine,  and,  at 
the  approach  of  Boyhood,  glided  or  splashed  to  the 
safety  of  the  water. 

The  banks  of  the  river  were  a  deep  and  silent 
jungle  wherein  all  manner  of  wild  beasts  and  birds 
were  hunted ;  its  bosom  was  the  vasty  deep  out  upon 
which  our  cherished  argosies  were  sent.  And  how 
often  their  prows  were  unexpectedly  turned  by  some 
new  current  into  mid-stream ;  sometimes  saved  by  an 
assortment  of  missies  breathlessly  thrown  to  the  far 
side,  to  bring  them,  wave-washed,  back  to  us;  some 
times,  alas,  swept  mercilessly  out  to  depths  where 
only  the  eye  and  childish  grief  could  follow  them 
over  the  big  dam  to  certain  wreckage  in  the  whirl 
pools  below,  but  even  then  not  abandoned  until  the 
shore  had  been  patrolled  for  salvage  as  far  as  courage 
held  out. 

;  Let's  go  back  to  the  banks  of  our  beloved  river, 
you  and  I — and  get  up  early  in  the  morning  and  run 
to  the  riffles  near  the  old  cooper-shop  and  catch  a 
bucket  of  shiners  and  chubs,  and  then  hurry  on  to 
Boomer's  dam — or  'way  upstream  above  the  Island 
where  we  used  to  have  the  Sunday-school  picnics — 
or  maybe  just  stay  at  the  in- town  dam  near  the  flour- 


mills  and  the  saw-mills  where  old  Shoemaker  Schmidt 
used  to  catch  so  many  big  ones — fat,  yellowr  pike  and 
broad  black-bass.  We  will  climb  high  up  on  the 
mist-soaked  timbers  of  the  mill-race  and  settle  our 
selves  contentedly — with  the  spray  moistening  our 
faces  and  the  warm  sun  browning  our  hands — and 
the  heavy  pounding  of  falling  waters  sounding  in  our 
ears  so  melodiously  and  so  sweetly.  Lazily,  drowsily 
we'll  hold  a  bamboo  pole  and  guide  our  shiner 
through  the  foam-crowned  eddies  of  the  whirlpool, 
awaiting  the  flash  of  a  golden  side  or  a  lusty  tug  at 
the  line ;  and  dreamily  watch  a  long,  narrow  stream 
of  shavings  and  sawdust,  loosed  from  the  opposite 
planing-mill,  float  away  on  the  current.  And  here, 
in  the  dear  dream-days,  the  conquering  of  the  world 
will  be  a  simple  matter ;  for  through  the  mist-prisms 
that  rise  from  the  foaming  waters  below  the  dam 
only  rainbows  can  be  seen — and  there  is  Youth  and 
the  Springtime,  and  the  new-born  flowers  and  mating 
birds,  and  The  River.  .  .  . 

And  when  the  sun  is  low  we'll  wind  our  poles,  at 
the  end  of  a  rare  and  great  day — one  that  cannot  die 
with  the  sunset,  but  that  will  live  so  long  as  Memory 
is.  Tonight  we  need  not  trudge  over  the  fields 
toward  home,  in  happy  weariness,  to  Her  who  waited 
and  watched  for  us  at  the  window,  peering  through 
the  gathering  dusk  until  the  anxious  heart  was  stilled 
by  the  sight  of  tired  little  legs  dragging  down  the 
street  past  the  postoffice.  We'll  stay  here  in  the  twi- 


light,  and  watch  the  fire-flies  light  their  fitful  lamps, 
and  the  first  stars  blinking  through  the  afterglow; 
and  when  the  night  drops  down  see  the  black  bats 
careening  weirdly  across  the  moon.  .  .  .  And 
we'll  stretch  out  again  on  the  wild  grass — soothed 
by  the  fragrance  of  the  Mayapple  and  the  violets, 
and  the  touch  of  the  night-wind.  .  .  How  still 
it  is  ...  and  The  River  doesn't  seem  to  sound 
so  loud  when  your  head's  on  the  ground — and  your 
eyes  are  closed — and  you're  listening  to  the  far,  far, 
far-off  lullaby  of  tumbling  waters — and  you're  a  bit 
tired ,  perhaps  .  .  .  a  bit  tired.  .  .  . 


THE  WINTER  STREAM 

Somehow  The  River  never  terrified  me. 

(It  did  mother,  however!) 

Perhaps  it  brought  no  fear  to  me  because  it  flowed 
so  gently  and  so  helpfully  through  such  a  wonderful 
valley  of  peace  and  plenty.  Even  in  its  austere  win 
ter  aspect,  with  its  tree-banks  bare  of  leaves  and  its 
snow-and-ice-bound  setting,  it  rejoiced  me. 

Teams  of  big  horses  and  wagons  and  scores  of 
men  worked  busily  upon  its  frozen  surface,  sawing 
and  cutting  and  packing  ice  in  the  big  wooden  houses 
along  the  banks. 

Always  there  was  enough  wind  for  an  ice-boat  or 
a  skate-sail,  or  to  send  a  fellow  swiftly  along  when 


mother-made  promises  were  forgotten  and  an  un 
buttoned  coat  was  held  outstretched  to  catch  the 
breeze. 

At  night  the  torches  and  bonfires  flickered  and 
glowed  where  the  skaters  sent  the  merry  noises  of 
their  revelry  afloat  through  the  crisp  air  as  they 
dodged  steel-footed  in  and  out  among  the  huts  of  the 
winter  fishermen. 

Perhaps  I  loved  the  winter  river  because  I  knew 
that  beneath  its  forbidding  surface  there  was  the  life 
of  my  loved  lilies,  and  because  I  knew  that  all  in 
good  time  the  real  river — our  river — would  be  re 
stored  to  us  again,  alive  and  joyous  and  unchanged. 

One  day,  when  first  the  tiny  rivulets  started  to 
run  from  the  bottom  of  the  snow-drifts,  The  River 
suddenly  unloosed  its  artillery  and  the  crisp  air  re 
echoed  with  the  booming  that  proclaimed  the  break- 
ing-up  of  the  ice.  Great  crowds  of  people  thronged 
the  banks,  wondering  if  the  bridge  would  go  out  or 
would  stand  the  strain  of  pounding  ice-cakes.  The 
unmistakable  note  of  a  robin  sounded  from  some 
where.  Great  dark  spots  began  to  show  in  the  white 
ice-ribbon  that  wound  through  the  valley.  The  air 
at  sundown  had  lost  its  sting. 

So  day  by  day  the  breaking-up  continued  until  at 
last  the  blessed  stream  was  clear — the  bass  jumped 
hungry  to  the  fly — the  daffodils  and  violets  sprang 
from  beneath  their  wet  leaf-blankets — and  all  the 


^.1   II  •    Saff^ffiwlf?'"/ 'l^^^^^^^ 

world  joined  the  birds  in  one  grand  song  of  emanci 
pation  and  joy. 

THE  BIG  BEND 

Above  the  town,  just  beyond  the  red  iron  bridge, 
the  river  made  a  great  bend  and  widened  into  a  lake 
where  the  banks  were  willow-grown  and  reeds  and 
rushes  and  grasses  and  lily-pads  pushed  far  out  into 
mid-stream,  leaving  only  a  narrow  channel  of  clear 
water. 

To  the  Big  Bend  our  canoe  glided  often,  paddling 
lazily  along  and  going  far  up-stream  to  drift  back 
with  the  current. 

Arms  bared  to  the  shoulder,  we  reached  deep  be 
neath  the  surface  to  bring  up  the  long-stemmed 
water-lilies — the  great  white  blossoms,  and  the  queer 
little  yellow-and-black  ones. 

Like  a  bright-eyed  sprite  the  tiny  marsh-wren 
flitted  among  the  rushes,  and  the  musk-rat  built 
strange  reed-castles  at  the  water's  edge. 

The  lace-winged  dragon-fly  following  our  boat 
darted  from  side  to  side,  or  poised  in  air,  or  alighted 
on  the  dripping  blade  of  our  paddle  when  it  rested 
for  a  moment  across  our  knees. 

Among  the  grasses  the  wind-harps  played  weird 
melodies  which  only  Boyhood  could  interpret. 

In  this  place  The  River  sang  its  love-songs,  and 
sent  forth  an  answering  note  to  the  vast  harmonious 


blending  of  blue  sky  and  golden  day  and  incense- 
heavy  air  and  the  glad  songs  of  birds. 

And  here  at  this  tranquil  bend  The  River  seemed 
to  be  the  self-same  river  of  the  old,  loved  hymn  we 
sang  so  often  in  the  Little  Church  With  The  White 
Steeple — that  river  which  "flows  by  the  throne  of 
God";  fulfilling  the  promise  of  the  ancient  prophet 
of  prophets  and  bringing  "peace  .  .  .  like  a 
river,  and  glory  .  .  .  like  a  flowing  stream." 


Christmas 


4444 


Christmas 


E  always  used  grandmother's  stocking — 
because  it  was  the  biggest  one  in  the  family, 
much  larger  than  mother's,  and  somehow 
it  seemed  able  to  stretch  more  than  hers. 

There  was  so  much  room  in  the  foot,  too — a  chance 

for  all  sorts  of  packages. 

There  was  a  carpet-covered  couch  against  the 
flowered  wall  in  one  corner  of  the  parlor.  Between 
the  foot  of  it  and  the  chimney,  was  the  door  into  our 
bedroom.  I  always  hung  my  stocking  at  the  side  of 
the  door  nearest  the  couch,  on  the  theory,  well- 
defined  in  my  mind  with  each  recurring  Christmas, 
that  if  by  any  chance  Santa  Clans  brought  me  more 
than  he  could  get  into  the  stocking,  he  could  pile  the 
overflow  on  the  couch.  And  he  always  did ! 

It  may  seem  strange  that  a  lad  who  seldom  heard 
even  the  third  getting-up  call  in  the  morning  should 
have  awakened  without  any  calling  once  a  year — or 
that  his  red-night-gowned  figure  should  have  leaped 
from  the  depths  of  his  feather  bed — or  that  he  should 
have  crept  breathless  and  fearful  to  the  door  where 
the  stocking  hung.  Notwithstanding  the  ripe  experi 
ence  of  years  past,  when  each  Christmas  found  the 
generous  stocking  stuffed  with  good  things,  there 
was  always  the  chance  that  Santa  Claus  might  have 
forgotten,  this  year — or  that  he  might  have  miscalcu 
lated  his  supply  and  not  have  enough  to  go  'round — 


or  that  he  had  not  been  correctly  informed  as  to  just 
what  you  wanted — or  that  some  accident  might  have 
befallen  his  reindeer-and-sleigh  to  detain  him  until 
the  grey  dawn  of  Christmas  morning  stopped  his 
work  and  sent  him  scurrying  back  to  his  toy  kingdom 
to  await  another  Yule-tide. 

And  so,  in  the  fearful  silence  and  darkness  of  that 
early  hour,  with  stilled  breath  and  heart  beating  so 
loudly  you  thought  it  would  awaken  everyone  in  the 
house,  you  softly  opened  the  door — poked  your  arm 
through — felt  around  w^here  the  stocking  ought  to  be, 
but  with  a  great  sinking  in  your  heart  when  you 
didn't  find  it  the  first  time — and  finally  your  chubby 
fist  clutched  the  misshapen,  lumpy,  bulging  fabric 
that  proclaimed  a  generous  Santa  Glaus. 

Yes,  it  was  there ! 

That  was  enough  for  the  moment.  A  hurried 
climb  back  into  the  warm  bed — and  then  intermi 
nable  years  of  waiting  until  your  attuned  ear  caught 
the  first  sounds  of  grandmother's  dressing  in  her 
nearby  bedroom,  and  the  first  gleam  of  winter  day 
light  permitted  you  to  see  the  wondrous  stocking  and 
the  array  of  packages  on  the  sofa.  It  was  beyond 
human  strength  to  refrain  from  just  one  look.  But 
alas !  The  sight  of  a  dapple-grey  rocking-horse  with 
silken  mane  and  flowing  tail  was  too  much,  and  the 
next  moment  you  were  in  the  room  with  your  arms 
around  his  arched  neck,  while  peals  of  unrestrained 
joy  brought  the  whole  family  to  the  scene.  Then  it 


was  that  mother  gathered  you  into  her  lap,  and 
wrapped  her  skirt  about  your  bare  legs,  and  held 
your  trembling  form  tight  in  her  arms  until  you 
promised  to  get  dressed  if  they  would  open  just  one 
package — the  big  one  on  the  end  of  the  sofa.  After 
that  there  was  always  "just  one  more,  mother, 
please!"  and  by  that  time  the  base  burner  was  warm 
ing  up  and  you  were  on  the  floor  in  the  middle  of  the 
discarded  wrapping-paper,  uncovering  each  wondrous 
package  down  to  the  very  last — the  very,  very  last — 
in  the  very  toe  of  the  stocking — the  big  round  one 
that  you  were  sure  was  a  real  league  ball  but  which 
proved  to  be  nothing  but  an  orange !  .  .  . 

No  Santa  Glaus?    Huh!     .     .     . 

If  there  isn't  any  Santa  Glaus,  what  does  he  put 
all  the  sample  toys  in  the  stores  for  every  Christmas 
so  boys  and  girls  can  see  what  they  want?  If  he 
doesn't  fill  the  stockings,  who  does,  I'd  like  to  know. 
Some  folks  say  that  father  and  mother  do  it — but 
s'posin'  they  do,  it's  only  to  help  Santa  Glaus  some 
times  when  he's  late  or  overworked,  or  something 
like  that. 

The  Spirit  of  Christmas  is  Santa  Glaus — else  how 
could  he  get  around  to  everybody  in  the  whole  world 
at  exactly  the  same  time  of  the  night  ? 


Thei 


:re  is  a  new  high-power  motor  in  my  garage. 
It  came   to  me  yesterday — Christmas.     It   is  very 


beautiful,  and  it  cost  a  great  deal  of  money,  a  very 
great  deal.  If  we  were  in  the  Little  Old  Town  it 
would  take  us  all  out  to  Aunt  Em's  farm  in  ten 
minutes.  (It  always  took  her  an  hour  to  drive  in 
with  the  old  spotted  white  mare. ) 

I  am  quite  happy  to  have  this  wonderful  new  horse 
of  today,  and  there  is  some  warmth  inside  of  me  as 
I  walk  around  it  in  the  garage  while  Henry,  its 
keeper,  flicks  with  his  chamois  every  last  vestige  of 
dust  from  its  shiny  sides. 

And  yet  ...  how  gladly  would  I  give  it  up 
if  only  I  could  have  been  in  my  feather  bed  last  night 
— if  I  could  have  awakened  at  daybreak  and  crept 
softly,  red-flanneled  and  barefooted,  to  the  parlor 
door — if  I  could  have  groped  for  grandmother's 
stocking  and  felt  its  lumpy  shape  respond  to  my  eager 
touch — and  if  I  could  have  known  the  thrill  of  that 
dapple-grey  rocking-horse  when  I  flung  my  arms 
around  its  neck  and  buried  my  face  in  its  silken 
mane! 


Butter,  Eggs,  Ducks,  Geese 

It  seems  mighty  convenient  to  telephone  your 
grocer  to  send  up  a  pound  of  butter  and  have  it 
come  all  squeezed  tight  into  a  nice  square-cornered 
cardboard  box  whose  bright  and  multi-colored  label 
assures  you  that  the  butter  has  been  properly  de 
odorized,  fumigated,  washed,  sterilized,  antisepticized 
and  conforms  in  every  other  respect  to  the  Food  and 
Drugs  Act,  Serial  1762973-A.  You  read  the  label 
again  and  feel  reasonably  safe  at  meals. 

Huh!  Precious  little  grandmother  knew  about 
that  kind  of  butter! 

Hers  came  in  a  basket — a  great  big  worn-brown- 
and-shiny,  round  bottom,  willow  basket,  hand-wove. 
It  didn't  come  in  any  white-and-gold  delivery  wagon, 
either.  It  was  delivered  by  a  round-faced,  rosy- 
cheeked,  gingham-gowned  picture  of  health,  whose 
apron-strings  barely  met  around  the  middle — for 
Frau  Hummel  brought  it  herself — after  having  first 
milked  the  cows  with  her  own  hands  and  wielded 
the  churning-stick  with  her  own  stout  German  arms. 
She  had  the  butter  all  covered  up  with  fresh,  sweet, 
white-linen  cloths — and  hand-moulded  into  big  rolls 
• — each  roll  wrapped  in  its  own  immaculate  cloth — 
and  when  that  cloth  was  slowly  pulled  away  so  that 
grandmother  could  stick  the  point  of  a  knife  in  the 
butter  and  test  it  on  her  tongue,  you  could  see  the 
white!  salt  all  over  the  roll — and  even  the  imprint  of 


the  cloth-threads  .  .  .  Good?  .  .  .  Why, 
you  could  eat  it  without  bread ! 

"What  else  have  you  got  today,  Mrs.  Hummel?" 
(Grandmother  never  could  say  "Frau" — and  as  if 
she  didn't  know  what  else  was  in  the  basket!) 

"Veil,  Mrs.  Van,  dere  is  meppe  some  eks,  und  a 
dook — und  also  dere  is  left  von  fine  stuffed  geese." 

So  the  cloth  covering  was  rolled  farther  back — 
and  the  3 -dozen  eggs  were  gently  taken  out  and  put 
in  the  old  tin  egg-bucket — and  just  then  grandfather 
came  in  and  lifted  tenderly  out  of  the  basket  one  of 
those  wonderful  geese  "stuffed"  with  good  food  in  a 
dark  cellar  until  fat  enough  for  market.  .  .  . 
Ever  have  a  toothful  of  that  kind  of  goose-breast  or 
second  joint?  .  .  .  No?  .  .  .  Your  life  is 
yet  incomplete — you  have  something  to  live  for! 
.*  *  .  Goodness  me!  I  cant  describe  it!  .  .  . 
How  can  a  fellow  tell  about  such  things!  .  .  . 
It's  like— well,  it's  like  Frau  Hummel's  "stuffed" 
goose,  that's  all !  .  .  . 

And  then  it  was  weighed  on  the  old  balances,  or 
steels — (no,  I  don't  mean  scales!) — halyards,  you 
know — a  long-armed  affair  with  a  pear-shaped  chunk 
of  iron  at  one  end  and  a  hook  at  the  other  and  a 
handle  somewhere  in  between  at  the  center-of-grav- 
ity,  or  some  such  place.  .  .  .  Anyway,  they 
gave  an  honest  pound,  which  is  perhaps  another  re 
spect  in  which  they  were  different. 

Then  the  ducks,  too,  were  unwrapped  from  their 
white  cloths  and  weighed — usually  a  pair  of  them — 


and  the  old  willow  basket  had  nothing  left  but  its 
bundle  of  cloths  when  Frau  Hummel  started  out 
again  on  her  10-mile  walk  to  the  farm.' 

Whenever  I  see  a  glassy-eyed,  feather-headed,  cold- 
storage  chicken  half  plucked  and  discolored  hanging 
in  a  present-day  butcher-shop  accumulating  dust — or 
a  scrawny  duck  almost  popping  through  its  skin — I 
think  of  Frau  Hummel  and  her  willow  basket.  .  .  . 

But  Frau  Hummel  isn't  here  now — and  they  don't 
build  ducks  and  geese  like  hers  any  more — and  her 
old  willow  basket  is  probably  in  some  collection, 
while  we  use  these  machine-made  things  that  fall  to 
pieces  when  you  accidentally  stub  your  toe  against 
them  in  the  cellar.  .  .  .  We  are  hurrying  along 
so  fast  that  we  don't  see  anything  until  it's  cooked 
and  served.  .  .  .  We  just  use  the  phone  and  let 
them  send  us  any  old  thing  that  they  can  charge  on 
a  bill.  .  .  .  But  in  those  days  grandfather  and 
grandmother  inspected  everything — and  it  just  had 
to  be  good — and  there  weren't  any  trusts — or  eggs 
of  various  grades  from  just  eggs  to  strictly  fresh  eggs 
and  on  down  to  eggs  guaranteed  to  boil  without 
crowing.  Every  Frau  Hummel  in  the  country 
wanted  the  Van  Alstyne  trade — and  Frau  Hummel 
knew  it — and  she  never  brought  anything  to  that 
back  kitchen  door  unless  it  was  perfect  of  its  kind. 

No  wonder  grandfather  lived  to  be  92  and  grand 
mother  86 — in  good  health  and  spirits  to  the  last! 


The  Sugar   Barrels 

Do  you  remember  the  three  barrels  of  sugar  in 
the  dark  place  under  the  stairs — or  were  they  in 
the  big  pantry  just  off  the  kitchen? 

Well,  anyway,  there  were  three,  you  recollect — 
two  of  white  and  one  of  brown. 

Always  the  brown  sugar — and  each  Autumn  the 
same  colloquy: 

"Mr.  Van,  don't  you  think  we  can  get  along 
without  the  brown  sugar  this  year?" 

"Now,  Mrs.  Van,  you've  got  to  have  a  little 
brown  sugar  in  the  house — and  it  comes  cheaper 
by  the  barrel." 

"Yes,  so  it  does,  Mr.  Van We  can 

use  it,  I  suppose,  in  something And 

we  always  have  had  it,  and Well, 

do  as  you  think  best." 

White  sugar  was  good  when  you  had  something 
to  go  with  it. 

But  brown  sugar  stood  alone — sticky,  heavy, 
crumbly  lumps  that  held  together  until  a  fellow 
could  tip  back  his  head  and  drop  one  of  the  chunks 
in  his  mouth. 


And  after  school  grandmother  could  be  persuaded 
to  cut  a  full-size  slice  of  bread  (thick)  and  spread 
it  with  butter  (thick)  and  you'd  start  away  with  it 
(quick) — just  nibbling  at  one  edge,  not  really  bit 
ing — and  you'd  sneak  into  the  dark  place  under  the 
stairs  (or  into  the  pantry) — and  reach  deep  down 
into  the  white  sugar  barrel — and  grab  a  handful — 
and  sprinkle  it  over  the  bread-and-butter — and  shake 
back  into  the  barrel  all  that  didn't  stick  to  the  butter 
— and  then  do  it  all  over  again — and  pat  it  down 
hard — and  then  sprinkle  just  a  little  bit  more  on 
hurriedly,  (because  grandfather's  cane  could  be 
heard  tapping  down  the  hall) — and  then  you 
emerged  with  dignity,  but  with  no  unnecessary  com 
motion — and  just  faded  away  into  the  Outer  World 
so  softly,  so  gently,  so  contentedly!  .  .  .  .  . 

(Have  you  tried  any  bread-and-butter-and-sugar 
recently  ?  Did  it  taste  the  same  as  it  used  to  ?  ... 

No?  .  .  .  Perhaps  you  broke  it  into  pieces 
instead  of  beginning  at  one  side  and  eating  straight 
through  ? 

Or  maybe  you  got  hold  of  the  cooking  butter 
...  Or  did  you  try  it  with  baker's  bread  ?  .  .  . 

No?    ...    Well,  why  didn't  it  taste  the  same?) 


Jimmy 
The  Lamplighter 


Jimmy,  the  Lamplighter 


The  sun  had  gone  down  behind  the  willows  uu 
the  river-bank.  The  night-clouds  still  carried  the 
crimson-and-purple  of  the  late  twilight;  and  the 
deep,  still  waters  of  the  channel  gave  back  the  colors 
and  the  gleam  of  the  first  stars  that  heralded  the 

night The  martins  chattered  under 

the  eaves,  scolding  some  belated  member  of  the  clan 
who  pushed  noisily  for  a  lodging-place  for  the  night. 
The  black  bat  and  the  darting  nighthawk  were 
a-wing,  grim  spectres  of  the  dusk.  The  whip-poor- 
will  was  crying  along  the  river,  and  far  up-stream 
the  loon  called  weirdly  across  the  water 

A  small  boy  was  sitting  on  grandfather's  front 
steps,  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  chin  in  his  palms, 
seeing  familiar  objects  disappear  in  the  gathering 
dusk,  and  watching  the  stars  come  out.  He  was  safe, 
very  safe — for  grandfather  had  not  gone  to  the 
dining-room  yet,  and  his  arms  could  be  reached  for 
shelter  in  two  or  three  bounds,  if  need  be.  So  it 
was  very  pleasant  to  sit  on  the  steps  and  see  the 
little  old  town  fold-up  its  affairs  and  settle  down 
for  the  night. 

And  more  particularly  to  watch  for  Jimmy,  the 
Lamplighter. 

Far  up  the  street,  in  the  almost-dark  place,  about 
where  Schmidt's  shoestore  ought  to  be,  a  point  of 


light  flashed  suddenly,  flickered,  and  then  burned 
steadily — and  in  a  moment  another,  across  the  street 
.  .  .  .  Then  a  space  of  black,  and  two  more 
points  appeared.  Down  the  street  they  came  in 
pairs,  closely  following  the  retreating  day. 

And  the  Little  Boy  on  the  Steps  knew  that  it 
was  Jimmy,  the  Lamplighter,  working  his  way 
swiftly  and  silently.  If  only  the  dinner-bell  would 
delay  awhile  The  Boy  would  see  old  Jimmy  light 
the  lamp  on  grandfather's  corner,  as  he  had  seen 
him  countless  times  before. 

Then,  just  as  the  red  glow  faded  in  the  West 
and  Night  settled  down,  he  came  swinging  sturdily 
across  the  street,  his  ladder  hung  on  his  right  shoul 
der,  his  wax  taper  in  his  left  hand.  Quickly,  un 
erringly  he  placed  the  ladder  against  the  iron  post 
that  sent  its  metalic  ring  into  the  clear  night  air 
as  the  ladder  struck,  and  was  three  rounds  up  almost 
before  it  settled  into  position.  Then  a  quick  open 
ing  of  the  glass;  a  struggle  with  the  matches  in  the 
wind,  a  hurried  closing  of  the  door,  one  quick  look 
upward;  an  arm  through  the  ladder  and  a  swing 
to  the  shoulder — and  Jimmy  the  Lamplighter  was 
busily  off  to  his  next  corner. 

Once,  in  the  later  years,  he  came  with  his  new 
lighter — a  splendid  brass  affair,  with  smooth  wood 
handle,  holding  a  wax  taper  that  flickered  fitfully 
down  the  street  and  marked  old  Jimmy's  pathway 
through  the  dusk.  Although  he  could  reach  up 


and  turn  on  the  gas  with  the  key-slot  at  the  end  of 
the  scepter  and  light  it  with  the  taper,  all  at  one 
time,  he  ever  carried  the  ladder — for  none  could 
tell  when  or  where  a  burner  might  need  fixing,  or 
there  would  be  other  need  to  climb  the  post  as  in 
the  days  of  the  lamp  and  sulphur-match. 

Short  of  stature,  firm  of  build,  was  old  Jimmy. 
The  night  storms  of  innumerable  years  had  bronzed 
his  skin  and  furrowed  his  face.  Innumerable  years, 
yes — for  so  faithful  a  servant  as  old  Jimmy  the 
Lamplighter  was  not  to  be  cast  away  by  every 
caprice  of  the  public  mind  which  changed  the  polit 
ical  aspect  of  the  town  council.  So  Jimmy  stayed 
on  through  the  years  and  changing  administrations 
— in  the  sultry  heati  of  the  summer  nights,  or  breast 
ing  his  way  through  winter's  huge  snow-drifts,  front 
ing  the  wind-driven  sleet,  or  dripping  through  the 
spring-time  rain,  his  taper  hugged  tight  beneath  his 
thick  rubber  coat,  his  matches  safe  in  the  depths  of 
an  inside  pocket. 

And  tonight,  as  the  Boy  still  watches,  in  memory, 
old  Jimmy  on  his  rounds,  they  are  a  bit  odd,  these 
queer  old  street  lamps  that  just  seem  to  belong  to 
the  night,  after  the  garish  blaze  of  electric  signs 
and  the  great  arc-lights  in  the  shop  windows.  Yet 
it  shines  through  the  years,  this  simple  lamp  of  the 
Long  Ago,  as  it  shone  through  the  night  of  old — a 
friendly  beacon  only,  the  modest  servant  of  an 
humble  race. 


Jimmy's  boy  Ted,  who  carried  his  father's  ladder 
and  taper  when  the  good  old  man  laid  them  down, 
now  nods  in  his  chimney-corner  o'  nights.  But  his 
boy,  old  Jimmy's  grandson,  is  still  a  lamplighter — 
still  illuminating  the  streets  of  his  town,  still  turn 
ing  on  its  lamps  when  the  loon  calls  weirdly  across 
the  river  in  the  gathering  dusk. 

He  bears  no  ladder  nor  fitful  taper — he  dreads  no 
sultry  summer  heat — he  breasts  no  snowdrifts — he 
battles  against  no  wind-driven  sleet  and  rain. 

There  he  sits,  inside  yonder  great  brick  building, 
his  chair  tipped  back  against  the  wall,  reading  the 
evening  paper  while  the  giant  wheels  of  the  dynamo 
purr  softly  and  steadily.  He  lowers  his  paper — 
looks  at  the  clock — then  out  into  the  early  twilight 
.  .  .  .  then  slowly  turns  to  the  wall,  pushes  a 
bit  of  a  button,  takes  up  his  paper  again,  and  goes 
on  with  his  reading — while  a  thousand  lights  burn 
white  through  the  city!  .... 

Ah,  Jimmy,  Jimmy!  the  world  is  all  awry,  man! 
Your  son's  son  lights  his  thousand  lamps  in  a  flash 
that's  no  more  than  the  puff  of  wind  that  used  to 
blow  your  match  out  when  you  stood  on  your  ladder 
and  lighted  one! 


Flies 


Come  to  think  of  it,  the  Old  Folks  never  made 
such  a  fuss  about  flies  as  we  make  nowadays.  You 
cannot  pick  up  a  magazine  without  running  plumb 
into  an  article  on  the  deadly  housefly — with  pictures 
of  him  magnified  until  he  looks  like  the  old  million- 
toed,  barrel-eyed,  spike-tailed  dragon  of  your  boy 
hood  mince-pie  dreams.  The  first  two  pages  con 
vince  you  that  the  human  race  is  doomed  to  exter 
mination  within  eighteen  months  by  the  housefly 
route ! 

Grandmother  never  resorted  to  very  drastic  meas 
ures.  The  most  violent  thing  she  ever  did  was  to 
get  little  Annie,  B  rid  get- the-house  woman's  Annie,  to 
help  her  chase  them  out.  They  went  from  room  to 
room  periodically  (when  flies  became  too  numerous), 
each  armed  with  an  old  sawed-off  broom-handle  on 
which  were  tacked  long  cloth  streamers — a  sort  of 
cat-o'-nine-tails  effect,  only  with  about  a  score  or 
more  of  tails.  After  herding  the  blue-bottles  and  all 
their  kith  and  kin  into  a  fairly  compact  bunch  at 
the  door,  little  Annie  opened  the  screen  and  grand 
mother  drove  them  out — and  that's  all  there  was 
to  it. 

Another  favorite  device  (particularly  in  the  din 
ing-room  and  kitchen),  was  the  "fly-gallery" — a 
wonderful  array  of  multicolored  tissue-paper  fes- 


tooned  artistically  from  the  ceiling  or  around  the 
gas-pipes  to  lure  or  induce  the  fly  into  moments  of 
inactivity.  There  was  no  extermination  in  this  de 
vice — it  was  purely  preventive  in  its  function — the 
idea  being  that  since  there  must  be  fly-specks,  better 
to  mass  them  as  much  as  possible  on  places  where 
they  would  show  the  least  and  could  be  removed  the 
easiest  when  sufficiently  accumulated. 

But  the  greatest  ounce-of-prevention  was  the 
screen  hemisphere.  Gee !  I  haven't  thought  of  that 
thing;  for  years,  have  you  ?  Of  course  you  remember 
it — absolutely  fly-proof — one  clapped  over  the  butter, 
another  over  the  cracker-bowl,  another  over  the 
sugar. 

And  say!  I  almost  forgot!  .  .  .  (Yes,  I 
know  you  were  just  going  to  speak  of  it!)  .  .  . 
That  conical  screen  fly-trap — where  the  flies  see 
something  good  inside,  crawl  up  to  the  top  and  then 
over  and  in — and  then  can't  get  out — but  just  buzz 
and  buzz  and  buzz — and  make  a  lot  of  fuss  about 
it — bluebottles  and  all — no  respecter  of  persons — and 
when  it  gets  full  of  the  quick  and  dead  in  flydom, 
Bridget  takes  it  out  in  the  back  yard  and  dumps  it. 
Very  simple  .  .  .  clean,  peaceful,  effective. 

My,  My!  But  it's  a  far  cry  back  to  those  days, 
isn't  it  ?  And  wouldn't  you  like  to  right  this  minute 
sneak  into  the  cool,  curtain-down,  ever-so-quiet  din 
ing-room  again  .  .  .  and  nose  around  to  see 
if  anything  edible  had  been  overlooked — and  see  one 
of  those  dear  old  round  fly-screens  guarding  the 
sugar ! 


The  Autumn  Leaves 

There  were  three  recognized  uses  for  leaves  in 
the  Autumn — first,  to  be  banked  by  the  wind  along 
fences  or  sidewalk  edges  and  provide  kicking-ground 
for  exuberant  youngsters  returning  home  from 
school;  second,  to  be  packed  around  the  founda 
tions  of  the  house  as  a  measure  for  interior  comfort 
in  winter;  and,  third,  to  be  pressed  between  the  pages 
of  the  big  Bible  and  kept  for  ornamental  purposes 
until  they  crumbled  and  had  to  be  thrown  away. 
This  last-named  use  was  always  questioned  by  every 
red-blooded  boy,  and  more  tolerated  than  accepted 
— a  concession  to  the  women  of  earth,  from  little 
sister  with  her  bright-hued  wreath  to  mother  and 
grandmother  with  their  book  of  pressed  leaves. 

Even  for  purposes  of  comfort  their  use  was  more 
or  less  secondary — granted  because  the  banking-up 
process  was  a  man's  job  and  an  out-door  enterprise. 
Then,  too,  it  was  a  lot  of  fun  to  rake  the  big  yard 
and  get  the  fallen  leaves  into  one  or  two  huge  piles ; 
and  wheelbarrow  them  to  the  edge  of  the  house 
where  old  Spencer  had  driven  the  wooden  pegs  that 
held  the  boards  ready  to  receive  the  leaves.  Load 
after  load  was  dumped  into  the  trough-like  arrange- 


ment  and  stamped  down  tight  and  hard  by  old  Tom's 
huge  feet  and  little  Willie's  eager  but  ineffective 
ones — and  then  the  top  board  was  fastened  down, 
and  never  a  cold  winter  wind  could  find  its  way  un 
der  the  floors  with  such  a  protective  bulwark  around 
the  house.  .  .  .  And  in  the  spring  the  boards 
had  to  be  taken  down — and  countless  bleached  bugs 
fairly  oozed  out  into  the  spring  sunlight — and  the 
snow- wet  soggy  leaves  were  raked  out  and  burned, 
and  the  smoke  was  so  thick  and  heavy  that  it  hardly 
got  out  of  the  yard. 

But  the  real  use  of  leaves — their  only  legitimate 
function  in  the  Autumn,  according  to  all  accepted 
boy-law — was  for  kicking  purposes. 

Plunging  through  banks  of  dry  leaves  along  the 
edge  of  the  sidewalk — knee-deep  sometimes — scatter 
ing  them  in  all  directions,  even  about  our  heads — 
there  was  such  a  racket  that  we  could  scarcely  hear 
each  other's  shouts  of  glee.  And  we'd  run  through 
them  only  to  dive  exhausted  into  some  huge  pile  of 
them,  rolling  and  kicking  and  hollering  until  some 
kid  came  along  and  chucked  an  armful,  dirt  and  all, 
plumb  into  our  face!  This  was  the  signal  for  a 
battle  of  leaves — and  perhaps  there  would  have  been 
fewer  tardy-marks,  teacher,  if  there  had  been  fewer 
autumn  leaves  along  the  route  .  .  .  Perhaps! 

There  were  influences  that  tempered  the  joys  of 
leaf-kicking — some  "meanie"  was  always  ready  to 
hide  a  big  rock,  or  other  disagreeable  foreign  sub- 


stance,  under  a  particularly  inviting  bunch  of  leaves 
— then  watch  and  giggle  at  your  discomfiture  when 
you  came  innocently  ploughing  along! 

What  a  riot  of  wonderful  color  they  made  just 
after  the  first  frosts  had  turned  their  green  to  red 
and  gold  and  brown!  As  a  boy  I  disdained  so 
weak  a  thing  as  noticing  the  coloring  on  Big  Hill 
— but  now,  in  the  long-after  years,  I  realize  that 
its  vivid  Autumn  garment  was  indestructibly  fixed 
in  my  memory  and  has  lived — saved  for  me  until 
I  could  look  back  through  Time's  long  glass  and 
understand  and  love  that  glorious  picture.  Not  even 
the  brush  of  a  Barbizon  master  could  tell  the  story 
of  Big  Hill,  three  miles  up  the  river  from  Main 
Street  bridge,  gleaming  in  the  hues  that  Jack  Frost 
mixed,  beneath  the  blue-gold  dome  of  a  cloudless  sky 
— for  it  could  not  paint  the  chatter  of  the  squirrel, 
or  the  glint  of  the  bursting  bittersweet  berry,  or  the 
call  of  the  crow,  or  the  crisp  of  the  air,  or  the  joy 
of  life  that  only  boyhood  knows! 


Getting  in  the  Wood 

An  autumnal  event  of  importance,  second  only  to 
the  filling  of  the  meat-house,  was  the  purchase  and 
sawing  of  the  wood. 

Three  sizes,  remember — the  4-foot  lengths  for 
the  long,  low  stove  in  the  Big  Room,  12-inch 
"chunks"  for  the  oval  sheet-iron  stove  in  the  parlor, 
and  the  fine-split  18-inch  lengths  for  the  kitchen. 
(Yes,  they  burned  wood  in  the  kitchen — not  only 
wood,  but  oak  and  maple  and  hickory — the  kind 
you  buy*  by  the  carat  nowadays ! ) 

And  what  a  fire  it  made !  Two  sticks  of  the  long 
wood  in  the  stove  in  the  Big  Room,  and  the  damper 
open,  and  you'd  have  to  raise  the  windows  inside  of 
fifteen  minutes  no  matter  how  low  the  thermometer 
registered  outside.  In  the  kitchen  grandmother  did 
all  her  cooking  with  a  \vood  fire — using  the  ashes 
for  the  lye  barrel — and  the  feasts  that  came  steaming 
from  her  famous  oven  have  never  been  equalled  on 
any  gas-range  ever  made.  (Gas-range!  how  grand 
mother  would  have  sniffed  in  scorn  at  such  a  sugges- 


tion!)  Even  coal  was  only  fit  for  the  base  burner 
in  the  family  sitting-room — and  that  must  be  anthra 
cite,  or  "hard"  coal,  the  kind  that  comes  in  sacks 
nowadays  at  about  the  same  price  as  butter  and  eggs. 
And  even  the  wood  had  to  be  split  just  so  and  be 
"clear"  and  right,  or  grandmother  would  scold 
grandfather  for  not  wearing  his  near-seeing  specs 
when  he  bought  it.  "Guess  they  fooled  you  on  that 
load,  Mr.  Van,"  she'd  say.  "It  isn't  like  the  last 
we  had." 

Don't  you  remember  how  you  were  hanging 
around  the  kitchen  one  Saturday  morning  kind-a 
waiting  for  something  to  come  within  reach,  and 
grandfather's  cane  came  tap-tapping  down  the  long 
hall,  and  he  pushed  open  the  kitchen  door  and  stood 
there,  just  inside  the  door,  until  the  kettle  started 
boiling  over  and  making  such  a  noise.  And  then  he 
announced  that  he  thought  he  better  go  out  and  see 
if  there  was  any  wood  in  market.  (As  if  there 
weren't  fifty  farmers  lined  up  there  almost  before 
daylight!)  It  was  about  nine  o'clock  and  the  sun 
had  had  a  chance  to  warm  things  up  a  bit — so  grand 
mother  wrapped  him  up  in  his  knitted  muffler  and 
away  he  went  beneath  his  shiny  silk  hat.  And  be 
cause  you  stood  around  and  looked  wistfully  up  at 
him,  he  finally  turned  back,  just  before  he  reached 
the  big  front  door  and  said:  "Want  to  go  along, 
Billie?"  Of  course  you  went,  because  there  were 
all  kinds  of  shops  on  the  way  up  town  to  the  wood 


market  and  grandfather  always  had  an  extra  nickle 
for  such  occasions. 

Can't  you  just  see  that  wood-market  now,  as  it 
used  to  be  in  the  Long  Ago — with  its  big  platform 
scales — and  its  wagons  of  accurately-piled  cord-wood 
marked  on  the  end  of  some  stick  with  the  white 
chalk-mark  of  the  official  "inspector"  and  measurer 
— and  the  farmers  all  bundled-up  and  tied-around 
with  various  cold-dispelling  devices  and  big  mitts  and 
fur  caps?  So  far  as  you  could  tell  then  (or  now, 
either,  I'll  wager!)  every  load  was  exactly  like  every 
other  load — but  not  so  to  grandfather,  for  he  would 
scrutinize  them  all,  sound  them  with  his  stick,  barter 
and  dicker  and  look  out  for  knots — and  then  make 
the  rounds  again  and  do  it  all  over  before  finally 
making  his  selection — and  I  distinctly  remember 
feeling  that  the  wood  left  in  market  after  grand 
father  had  made  his  selection  wasn't  worth  hauling 
away! 

Load  after  load  was  driven  up  to  the  high  back 
yard  fence  and  its  sticks  heaved  into  the  yard  and 
piled  in  perfect  order — and  it  made  a  goodly  and 
formidable  showing  when  Old  Pete,  the  wood- 
sawyer,  finally  arrived  on  the  scene.  The  time  of 
wood-buying  was  determined  partly  by  Pete's  en 
gagements — he  went  first  to  the  Perkinses  and  next 
to  the  Williamses  and  so  on  in  rotation  as  he  had 
done  for  years,  his  entire  winter  being  "engaged" 
far  ahead.  It  did  not  seem  possible,  to  boyish  mind, 


that  one  man  could  ever  get  all  that  wood  sawed 
and  split,  even  if  he  was  a  great  giant  Norseman 
with  the  finest  buck-saw  in  the  country. 

But  each  year  Old  Pete's  prowess  seemed  to  in 
crease — and  day  after  day  the  ceaseless  music  of  his 
saw  sounded  across  the  crisp  air — and  the  measured 
strokes  of  his  axe  struck  a  clarion  note — until  finally 
the  yard  showed  only  chips  and  saw-dust  where  that 
vast  wood-pile  had  been — and  the  big  barn  was 
piled  full  to  the  rafters — the  kitchen  wood  and 
chunks  on  one  side,  the  big  wood  on  the  other. 

Then  Pete  would  come  in  and  announce  that 
the  job  was  done — and  grandfather  would  bundle- 
up  and  go  out  for  a  final  inspection.  Pete  removed 
the  pad  from  his  leg  (you  remember  the  carpet  he 
wore  on  his  left  knee — the  one  that  held  the  stick 
in  place  in  the  buck  when  he  was  sawing)  and  to 
gether  they  went  into  the  barn — and  talked  it  all 
over — and  Pete  said  it  was  harder  wood  than  last 
year's  and  more  knots  in  it  and  ought  to  be  worth 
two  shillings  more  than  contract  price — and  grand 
father  finally  allowed  the  excess — and  Old  Pete 
came  in  and  got  his  money  (in  gold  and  silver)  and 
a  bowl  of  coffee  and  some  bread — and  went  his  way 
to  the  Jonesses  or  some  other  folks. 

And  you,  young  man — you  surely  hated  to  see 
that  great  Viking  go — for  he  had  told  you  many 
a  wonderful  tale  at  the  noon  hour  as  he  munched 
his  thick  sandwiches — and  no  one  could  look  at  his 


massive  head  and  huge  shoulders  and  great  beard 
and  hair  and  doubt  that  his  forebears  had  done  all 
that  he  credited  to  them. 

Somehow,  Old  Pete  seemed  more  real  than  most 
men  you  knew — except  grandfather,  of  course. 
There  was  something  unexplainable  in  the  man  and 
his  work  that  rang  true — something  that  was  so 
wholesome  and  sound.  He  wasn't  like  old  Haw 
kins,  the  grocer — he'd  as  lief  give  you  a  rotten  apple 
as  not  if  he  could  smuggle  it  into  the  bag  without 
you  seeing  him ;  and  Kline  the  candy-man  sometimes 
sold  you  old  hard  stuff  mixed  with  the  fresh.  But 
Old  Pete  here — he  just  worked  honest  and  steady — 
out  in  the  open — at  a  fixed  wage — and  he  did  an 
honest  job  and  was  proud  of  it  even  if  it  was  only 
sawing  wood.  He  worked  faithfully  until  it  wras 
done,  and  then  he  got  a  good  word  and  a  bowl  of 
coffee  and  his  wages  in  gold  and  silver — and  went 
his  way  rejoicing,  leaving  behind  him  the  glory  of 
labor  well  performed  blending  with  the  refreshing 
fragrance  of  new-cut  logs  that  sifted  through  the 
cracks  of  the  old  barn. 


The 
Rain 


ftfl           ~jn 

ID 

^^incin 

It  is  early,  and  Saturday  morning — very,  very 
early. 

Listen!  ...  An  unmistakable  drip,  drip, 
drip  .  .  .  and  the  room  is  dark. 

A  bound  out  of  bed — a  quick  step  to  the  window 
— an  anxious  peering  through  the  wet  panes 
.  '•"•..  .  .  and  the  confirmation  is  complete. 

It  is  raining — and  on  Saturday;  the  familiar  leaden 
skies  and  steady  drip  that  spell  permanency  and  send 
the  robin  to  the  shelter  of  some  thick  bush,  and  leave 
only  an  occasional  undaunted  swallow  cleaving  the 
air  on  swift  wing. 

In  all  the  world  there  is  no  sadness  like  that 
which  in  boyhood  sends  you  back  to  bed  on  Satur 
day  morning  with  the  mournful  drip,  drip,  drip  of  a 
steady  rain  doling  in  your  ears. 

Out  in  the  woodshed  there  is  a  can  of  the  largest, 
fattest  angle-worms  ever  dug  from  a  rich  garden- 
plot — all  so  happily,  so  feverishly,  so  exultantly  cap 
tured  last  night  when  Anticipation  strengthened  the 
little  muscles  that  wielded  the  heavy  spade.  All 


safe  in  their  black  soil  they  wait,  coiled  round  and 
round  each  other  into  a  solid  worm-ball  in  the  bot 
tom  of  the  can. 

A  mile  down  the  river  the  dam  is  calling — the 
tumbled  waters  are  swirling  and  eddying  and  foam 
ing  over  the  deep  places  where  the  black-bass  wait 
— and  old  Shoemaker  Schmidt,  patriarch  of  the  river, 
is  there  this  very  minute,  unwinding  his  pole,  for 
well  he  knows  that  if  one  cares  to  brave  the  weather 
he  will  catch  the  largest  and  finest  and  most  bass 
when  the  rain  is  falling  on  the  river. 

But  small  boys  who  have  anxious  mothers  do  not 
go  fishing  on  rainy  days — so  there  is  no  need  of 
haste,  and  one  might  as  well  go  back  to  bed  and 
sleep  unconcernedly  just  as  late  as  possible.  If 
only  a  fellow  could  get  up  between  showers,  or  be 
fore  the  rain  actually  starts,  so  that  he  could  truth 
fully  say :  "But,  mother,  really  and  truly,  it  wasn't 
raining  when  we  started!"  it  would  be  all  right, 
and  the  escape  was  warrantable,  justified  and  safe; 
but  with  the  rain  actually  falling,  there  was  nothing 
to  do  but  go  to  sleep  again  and  turn  the  worms  back 
into  the  garden  if  the  rain  didn't  let  up  by  noon. 


It  is  one  of  the  miracles  of  life  that  Boyhood  can 
turn  grief  into  joy  and  become  almost  instantly  re 
conciled  to  the  inevitable  like  a  true  philosopher,  and 
change  a  sorrow  into  a  blessing.  The  companion 
miracle  is  that  Manhood  with  its  years  of  wisdom 
forgets  how  to  do  this. 


And  so,  when  the  rainy  day  becomes  hopelessly 
rainy,  and  Shoemaker  Schmidt  is  left  alone  at  the 
dam,  the  rain  that  sounded  so  dismal  at  dawn  proves 
to  be  a  benefactor  after  all.  There  will  be  no  wood- 
splitting  today,  no  outdoor  chores — for  if  it's  too 
wet  to  go  fishing,  as  mother  insists,  of  course  it's  too 
wet  to  carry  wood,  or  weed  gardens  or  pick  cucum 
bers  for  pickles.  The  logic  is  so  obvious  and  con 
clusive  that  even  mother  does  not  press  the  point 
when  you  remind  her  of  it — and  you  are  free  for 
a  whole  day  in  the  attic. 

Instantly  the  blessing  is  manifest — the  sadness  of 
that  day-break  drip,  drip,  drip  is  healed — the  whole 
character  of  the  day  is  changed,  and  the  rain-melody 
becomes  not  a  funeral-march  but  a  dance. 

The  attic  is  the  place  of  all  places  you  would  most 
love  to  be  on  this  particular  calendar  day ! 

How  stupid  to  spoil  a  perfectly  good  Saturday  by 
sitting  on  a  hard  beam,  with  wet  spray  blowing  in 
your  face  all  the  time,  and  getting  all  tired  out 
holding  a  heavy  fish-pole,  when  here  is  the  attic 
waiting  for  you  with  its  mysterious  dark  corners, 
its  scurrying  mice  that  suddenly  develop  into  lions 
for  your  bow-and-arrow  hunting,  and  its  maneuvers 
on  the  broad  field  of  its  floor  with  yourself  as  the 
drum-corps  and  your  companions  as  the  army 
equipped  with  wooden  swords  and  paper  helmets! 


The  day  has  been  rich  in  adventure,  and  explor 
ation,  and  the  doing  of  great  deeds. 


And  it  has  been  all  too  short,  for  the  attic  is 
growing  dim,  and  mother  is  again  calling  us — tell 
ing  us  to  send  our  little  playmates  home  and  come 
and  get  our  bread  and  milk. 

A  last  arrow  is  shot  into  the  farthest  corner  where 
some  undiscovered  jungle  beast  may  be  prowling. 

A  last  roll  is  given  to  the  drum,  and  the  army 
disbands. 

A  sudden  fear  seizes  upon  us  as  we  realize  that 
night  has  come  and  we  are  in  the  attic,  alone. 

And  with  no  need  of  further  urging  we  scamper 
unceremoniously  down  the  stairs,  slam  the  attic  door, 
and  hurry  into  the  kitchen  where  Maggie  has  our 
table  waiting  .... 


Eight  o'clock — and  we're  all  tucked  away  among 
the  feathers  again! 

Aren't  we  glad  we  didn't  go  down  to  the  river 
— it  would  have  been  a  cold,  dismal  day — and  per 
haps  they  weren't  biting  today,  anyway — and  we 
should  have  gotten  very  wet. 

It  is  still  raining,  raining  hard — pattering  unceas 
ingly  on  the  roof  .  .  .  And  the  tin  eave-troughs 
are  singing  their  gentle  lullaby  of  running  water 
trickling  from  the  shingles  ...  a  lullaby  so 
soothing  that  we  do  not  hear  mother  softly  open 
the  door  .  .  .  and  come  to  our  crib  .  .  . 
and  place  the  little  bare  arms  under  the 
covers  .  .  and  leave  a  kiss  on  the  yellow 
curls  and  a  benediction  in  the  room. 


Grandmother 


Do  you  remember  the  day  she  lost  her  glasses? 
My,  such  a  commotion!  Everybody  turned  in  to 
hunt  for  them.  Grandmother  tramped  from  one  end 
of  the  house  to  the  other — we  all  searched — upstairs 
and  down — with  no  success. 

They  weren't  in  the  big  Bible  (we  turned  the 
leaves  carefully  many  times — it  was  the  most  likely 
place).  They  weren't  in  either  of  her  sewing  bas 
kets,  nor  in  the  cook-book  in  the  kitchen.  Grand 
father  said  she  could  use  one  pair  of  his  gold-bowed 
ones — but  shucks!  She  couldn't  see  with  anything 
except  those  old  steel-bowed  specs!  .  .  . 

And  then,  when  she  finally  sat  down  and  said  for 

the  fiftieth  time:    "I  wonder  where  those  specs  are!" 

and  put  the  corner  of  her  apron  to  her 


eyes — I  happened  to  look  up,  and  there  they  were — 
on  the  top  of  her  head!  Been  there  all  the  time 
.  .  .  And  she  enjoyed  the  joke  as  much  as  we 
did — a  joke  that  went  around  the  little  town  and 
followed  her  through  all  the  years  within  my  mem 
ory  of  her. 

Sometimes  (as  often  as  expedient),  you  asked  her 
for  a  penny — never  more,  and  then: 

"Now,  Willie,  what  do  you  want  with  a  penny? 
I  haven't  got  it.  Run  along  now." 

"Aw,  Gran'ma,  don't  make  a  feller  tell  what  he's 
goin'  to  buy.  I  know  you  got  one — Look'n  see! 
Please,  Gran'ma!" 

Slowly  the  wrinkled  hand  would  fumble  for  that 
skirt-pocket  which  was  always  so  hard  to  locate — 
and  from  its  depths  there  would  come  the  old  worn 
leather  wallet  with  a  strap  around  it — and  slowly, 
(gee!  how  s-1-o-w-l-y), — after  much  fumbling,  dur 
ing  which  you  were  never  sure  whether  you  were 
going  to  get  it  or  not  .  .  .  the  penny  would 
come  forth  and  be  placed  (with  seeming  reluctance) 
in  the  grimy,  dirty  boy-hand.  And  usually,  just  as 
you  reached  the  door  on  your  hurried  way  to  the 
nearest  candy-shop,  she  would  scare  you  almost  stiff 
by  calling  you  back,  and  say: 

"Wait  a  minute,  Willie,  I  found  another  one 
that  I  didn't  know  was  in  here!" 


And  then  you  kissed  her  wrinkled,  soft  cheek  and 
ran  away  thinking,  after  all,  grandmother  was  pretty 
good. 

Good? 

Can  a  woman  stick  to  a  man  through  sixty-odd 
years — and  keep  his  linen  and  his  broadcloth — and 
bear  him  children — and  make  them  into  fine  wives 
and  husbands — and  take  them  back  to  her  bosom 
when  their  mates  turn  against  them — and  raise  a 
bunch  of  riotous  grandchildren — and  manage  such 
a  household  as  ours  with  never  a  complaint — get  up 
at  five  o'clock  every  morning  and  sit  up  till  half- 
after  nine  o'clock  every  night — busy  all  the  time — 
and  nurse  her  own  and  other  folks'  ailments  without 
a  murmur — and  submerge  self  completely  in  her  con 
stant  doing  for  others — can  a  frail  woman  so  live  for 
eighty-six  years  and  be  anything  less  than  good? 

And  then,  at  the  end  of  the  long  journey  she  was 
still  trudging  patiently  and  gladly  along,  side  by  side 
with  Grandfather — making  less  fuss  over  the  years- 
old  pain  in  her  knees  than  we  make  now  over  a  splin 
ter  in  a  finger — going  daily  and  uncomplainingly 
about  her  manifold  duties. 

And  at  night,  about  an  hour  before  bedtime,  she 
would  sit  down  in  the  black-upholstered  rocker  al 
most  behind  the  big  base  burner — her  first  quiet 
moment  in  all  the  long  day — head  resting  against 
the  chair's  high  back — and  doze  and  listen  to  the 


fitful  conversation  in  the  room,  or  to  someone  read 
ing — giving  everything,  demanding  nothing — as  had 
been  her  wont  all  the  long  years! 

And  Christmas  eve  .  .  .  (I'll  have  to  go  a 
bit  slow  now)  ...  On  Christmas  eve,  you 
remember,  when  out-of-doors  the  big  snow-flakes 
were  slowly  and  softly  fluttering  down,  grandmother 
would  get  the  huge  Bible  and  her  treasure-box  and 
bring  them  up  to  the  little  round  table  covered  with 
its  red  cloth  .  .  .  And  you'd  get  a  chair  and 
come  up  close  ('cause  you  knew  what  was  happen 
ing)  .  .  .  Then  she  would  read  you  a  won 
derful  story  out  of  the  Bible  about  the  love  of  God 
so  great  that  He  sent  His  only-begotten  Son  to  be 
a  Light  unto  the  World  .  .  .  and  then  she'd 
go  down  into  that  little  old  card-board  treasure-box 
and  find  some  Christmas  carols  printed  in  beautiful 
colors  on  lace-edged  cards  folded  up  just  like  a  fan. 
She  would  look  down  at  you  over  the  top  of  her 
specs  and  tell  you  how  the  street  minstrels  in  Eng 
land  used  to  stand  out  in  the  snow  and  sing,  and 
be  brought  into  the  house  and  given  a  warm  mug 
and  a  bite  to  eat — going  from  house  to  house  all 
through  the  early  night  .  .  . 

And  then  she  would  close  her  eyes  and  begin  to 
sing  the  dear  old  carols  .  .  .  with  the  tremble 
in  her  voice  .  .  .  and  tapping  on  the  table  with 
her  finger-ends  in  rhythm  .  .  .  and  Memory's 


tears  dropping  on  the  wrinkled  cheeks    .    .     .    and 
the  tremulous  voice,  still  soft  and  sweet,  chanting: 
"God  rest  you,  merrie  gentlemen ! 
Let  nothing  you  dismay; 
For  Jesus  Christ,  our  Saviour, 
Was  born  on  Christmas  Day!" 


Aye  and  amen,  dear  soul! 
He  does! 


God  rest  you — and 


When  Day  is  Done 

If  the  page  blurs,  as  it  may  do  if  you  were  ever 
a  child  and  if  you  have  been  tempered  in  the  cruel 
furnace  of  the  years,  maybe  the  mists  that  fill  the 
eyes  will  bathe  the  soul  of  you  in  their  hallowed 
flood  until  the  world-ache  is  soothed,  and  you  can 
start  up  the  big  road  again  with  some  of  the  same 
wonderful  exultation  that  sped  you  onward  and  for 
ward  in  the  Long  Ago  .  .  .  One  touch  of 
that,  and  the  burden  of  Today,  grown  great  in  the 
years  of  struggle,  slips  from  your  shoulders  as  lightly 
as  the  wild-rose  petal  drops  upon  the  bosom  of  the 
stream  and  floats  away  to  the  music  of  the  riffles. 

Only  a  strong  man  can  go  back  over  the  Old  Road 
to  the  beginning-point — facing  the  memories  that 
throng  the  path — meeting  the  surging  emotions  that 
sweep  away  all  our  carefully-laid  defenses — braving 
the  grim  spectre  that  puts  the  white  seal  of  age  upon 
our  heads. 

Once  more,  in  the  cool  of  the  late  twilight,  we'll 
sit  with  chin  in  hand  on  grandfather's  front  steps  and 


watch  the  stars  come  out  .  .  .  and  hear  the 
loon  calling  weirdly  across  the  water  .  .  .  and 
catch  the  perfume  of  the  lilacs  and  narcissus  from 
the  garden  .  .  .  and  gather  at  grandmother's 
knee  to  feel  her  soft  fingers  in  our  curls  and  hear 
her  bedtime  story.  Half  asleep,  but  ever  reluctant, 
we  will  trudge  stumblingly  to  the  little  room  with 
its  deep  feather  bed,  and  get  into  our  red-flannel 
nightie.  Down  on  our  knees,  with  our  face  in  the 
soft  edges  of  the  mattress  and  tiny  hands  uplifted, 
we  will  say  our  prayers,  and  end  them  in  the  same 
old  way:  "God  bless  father  and  mother,  and  grand 
father  and  grandmother  .  .  .  and  eve-ery-body 
,  .  .  else  in  .  .  .the  ...  world  .  . 
amen  ..."  and  feel  those  strong  mother-arms 
lifting  our  sleepy  form  into  the  downy  depths! 

Never  until  now  have  we  known  the  reality  of 
the  boy-da3rs,  or  paused  to  receive  their  hallowed 
touch. 

Grandfather  and  grandmother,  and  the  garden, 
and  the  river,  and  the  song  of  the  robin  in  the  apple- 
tree,  and  all  the  myriad  experiences  of  the  boy-time, 
are  glorified  now  as  never  before.  In  the  halcyon 
Then  they  were  but  incidents  of  the  day;  in  the 
mellowed  Now  we  learn  the  truth  of  them,  and 
catch  their  wondrous  meaning. 

The  flower  blossoms  are  gleaming  as  colorful  and 
fragrant  today  as  they  did  in  the  Long  Ago.  The 


bird-songs  are  as  tuneful  now  as  they  were  then. 
The  sun  is  shining  just  as  golden  and  as  genial 
this  moment  as  it  did  wThen  we  sat  on  the  beams 
of  the  mill-race  and  felt  on  our  faces  the  spray  of 
tumbling  waters  sun-warmed  in  the  air. 

We  need  only  open  our  hearts  and  let  the  sun 
shine  in! 

And  Youth  and  Age,  blended  and  rejoicing,  will 
go  hand  in  hand  along  the  path  of  life  to  its  far 
goal  bestowing  upon  us  all  the  freshness  of  the  dew- 
damp  morning,  all  the  vigor  of  the  strenuous  noon, 
and  all  the  peace  and  calm  assurance  of  the  star-lit 
night. 


EDITORIAL  REVIEW 

FROM  THE  EDITORIAL  PAGE  OF 

THE  Los  ANGELES  TIMES 

ISSUE  OF 
DECEMBER  4,  1916 

A  Book  of  Heart  Throbs 

"The    Long    Ago,"    by    J.    W.    Wright, 
and  Its  Charm 


"Oh,  to  go  back  to  the  place  where 
I  was  born!"  sings  Walt  Whitman, 
and  his  plaintive  song  finds  echo  in  a 
million  human  hearts.  And  because 
we  all  cherish  the  memories  of  child 
hood,  "The  Long  Ago"  will  appeal 
most  tenderly  to  everyone  who  reads 
it.  "The  Long  Ago"  is  an  artistically 
illustrated  Christmas  gift-book,  the 
composition  of  J.  W.  Wright,  a  gifted 
and  lovable  Pasadena  writer  whose 
recollection  of  boyhood's  golden  years, 
blending  with  the  purple  maturity  of 
manhood,  have  found  expression  in 
this  little  volume  of  poetic  essays.  In 
a  style  that  recalls  the  sweet  sim 
plicity  of  James  Lane  Allen,  revealing 
an  enviable  knowledge  of  nature  and 
her  ways,  and  interspersed  with  gen 
tle  touches  of  humor,  the  author  takes 
the  reader  by  the  hand  and  leads  him 
back  to  the  rosy  vale  of  the  past,  il 
luminated  by  life's  morning  star.  He 
tells  of  the  river  that  wound  its  crys 
tal  way  by  the  old  homestead,  the 
river  in  which  he  swam  and  fished  by 
day,  the  river  whose  music  lulled  him 
to  sleep  at  night.  He  writes  of  the 
autumn  leaves  and  the  sighing  winds 
and  the  falling  rain.  He  writes  of  the 
old-time  Christmas  and  the  gladness 
that  the  season  always  brought  to  a 
childish  heart  so  easily  made  happy. 


He  describes  grandmother's  garden 
dwells  upon  the  old  lady's  love  for 
the  blossoms  of  her  care  ana  says 
that,  like  all  real  gardens,  there  was 
something  more  to  this  bvight  spot 
besides  just  flowers  and  fragrance. 

Half  hidden  by  the  weeds  of  riper 
experiences    or     shadowed    by    ambi 
tion's    spreading    growth,    somewhere 
within   the   heart   of    every   man    still 
blooms  that  garden  of  the  long  ago 
The  flowers  in  that  garden  never  die, 
lor  they  are  the  blossoms  of  hope  and 
faith    and    innocence    and    love.      Un 
doubtedly  there  is  a  reason  for  man's 
sojourn  on  earth,  though  the  plan  we 
may  not  know.     Yet  now  and  then  it 
is  given  us   to   see   that   all   our  mis 
takes    and    embarrassments,    the    self 
ishness  of  egotism  and  the  sin  of  un- 
happiness,  are   but  shadows  we  have 
brought    upon    ourselves.      And    who 
would  doubt  that  in  that  blessed  after- 
while,   when   we   have   done   with  the 
artificialities    of    a    superficial!    exist 
ence,  we  shall  waken  to  new  life  and 
youth    that    is    eternal,    all    the    wiser 
tor   the   vanities   relinquished,  all  the 
better  for  the  sorrows  of  the  years? 
After  all,  to  the  heart  in  tune    it  is 
easy  to  trust  in  God,  it  is  natural  to 
love.    It  is  doubt  that  is  difficult   it  is 
hatred  that  is  hard.    Childhood  is  ever 
beautiful    because    childhood    is    true 
and  innocent,  because  it  does  not  com 
plicate  existence,  because  it  shows  its 
gratitude  by  simply  being  glad.  Happy 
that  man  who  has  the  power  to  bring 
again  to  us  the  blessed  memories  of 
the   long  ago!      "We  need   only  open 
our   hearts   and   let   the   sunshine    in. 
And  youth   and   age,   blended  and   re 
joicing,  will  go  hand  in  hand  along  the 
path  of  life  to  its  far  goa-l,  bestowing 
upon  us  all  the  freshness  of  the  dew- 
damp    morning,    all    the    vigor   of    the 
strenuous  noon  and  all  the  peace  and 
calm  assurance  of  the  starlit  night." 


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